


you're in the dictionary, next to what a bitch is

by bettercrazythanboring



Category: Morning Glories
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, F/F, Forest Sex, Precognition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2014-09-21
Packaged: 2018-02-18 05:20:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2336648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bettercrazythanboring/pseuds/bettercrazythanboring
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Zoe's first week at the Academy, and she knows <i>exactly</i> what she's doing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're in the dictionary, next to what a bitch is

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ExRI5AQ8xUE), which is a song I love beyond belief, and while I'm not keen on using gendered slurs, I felt that the particular line applied here, in a hopefully as positive a way as it can.

You don't question how your heart can jolt and spin in a compass the moment you step out of the car and onto the Academy's grounds. There's little use in asking questions that cannot be answered, you've learned in the last few months, and so you only create a mental marker to the left of a circular adjacent building, where your own personal north pole seems to reside.

Nothing but trees and dirt over there; your lips turn into a sneer as you turn back to more pressing matters than feelings and clairvoyance.

Eyes raking over your new place to fib and call "home", you inhale and flip your hair back with a practiced move. Then your legs are carrying you forward; stilettos clicking against the pavement, cleavage baiting everything—and you do mean  _everything_ —within killing distance. A group of girls lingering at the massive entrance cease their hushed giggling as you pass. Five sets of soft curls and messy braids turn to follow your departing figure; some with derision, some with thinly veiled interest.

Whatever;  _let_  those geniuses think—and deny—they want to be you. If all of them are too cowardly to admit that they wanna be  _on_ you, then they're not worth your time anyway.

Maybe it's pure coincidence, but you'd like to think the universe  _conspired_  to bring you through these halls smack dab in the middle of recess, to show them who's about to rule here. There'll be nun uniforms and unsightly discipline later, but right now your shiny hair bounces off your breasts with each firm sway of your hips; right now you're impossible to miss in a sea of students flattened against their lockers as you strut through; right now you have an entourage of three guards and what you're  _guessing_  is this faculty's resident wannabe badass.

(Although you do have to commend her for the extremely tight, long pencil skirt. It's something of an art form to you—to show off what they never knew they wanted, to declare without question that it is not and will never be theirs to have. Even if, unlike her, you rarely have to resort to  _clothes_  to get that second part across, it's nevertheless a decent effort.)

The first boy of what's sure to be an endless fleet approaches; you discard of him with barely a flicker of an eyelash. The second, a gentle prod of a single finger against his pecs. (You'd go for the abs, but he looks in danger of doubling over at such an invasion of unguarded innards; really, would crunches kill him?)

You don't even bother shrugging off the one whose idea of a pickup line is goat murder. His head has carrots sticking out of it, without even the benefit of adorable freckles to set it off.

The room you're assigned is half as big as your bedroom back in San Diego and contains twice as many alive things. (By the looks of it, all three of your roommates only amount to one actual person. Who would have known.) And there's a plant sitting on the window sill,  _eugh_ —you are not watering  _or_  smoking that thing.

The suicidal-sounding redhead has to go and be a drama queen pretty much immediately upon arrival; the Buffy lookalike naturally gets out her compassion and encouragement and tries to be a superhero. You hop up onto a top bunk that catches your fancy with a shrug and take out one of the seven back issues of Cosmopolitan you tucked into your suitcase over bloody lipstick and the diary you haven't written in for over a decade—since before you could even write. Your new roommates  _bond_  and turn their lives into  _chick flicks_ , apparently; that's the essence of what you gleam while you put in your headphones and ignore their very existence.

Sometimes your eyes lift to the large window on the right, next to your feet. It overlooks the woods beyond a round, useless-looking building. You smile.

* * *

 

Casey betrays you.

Or your friendship, or whatever. You don't actually give a flying fuck about fitting into her neatly arranged chess board filled with puzzle pieces instead of a royal staff, but it's as good an excuse as any for slipping away unnoticed for a few hours, you suppose. The first few times, you explore the school, make note of surveillance and security; pickpocket a few boys eager to get your hands anywhere near their dicks, unaware that you sharpen your nails every day, right between applying mascara and choosing the perfect bra.

The third day brings about an exhaustion of your steely resolve; the woods beckon.

You stomp in your baby blue heels over twigs and dried leaves on your way to a mystery. The destination's perfectly illuminated in your mind—so much that it blinds you, so much that you can only trace vague outlines of what you're going toward. That clarity lingers, perched atop every scabbed pine trunk you pass, always  _just_  out of your reach, but you don't need to  _know_  what's waiting for you—not when you can  _feel_  it coursing through your veins just as the impending murder of so many here curdles your blood. Just as the foresight of your own chills it.

A bullet hits, a foot from your toes; leaves and moss leap to the sky in an instant. Somewhere, a bird cries in distress and flees. You don't jolt, or yelp, or shriek, or even move your leg. It all rains back down within seconds, languid and scattered in the yellow beams of a setting sun. Your gaze lifts through the dust that's about to settle on your lips, on your hair; it travels beyond, to the culprit.

She stares back, hair like an unkindness of injured ravens, eyes wild but fiercely focused. Her rifle lowers; she straightens from her crouch.

 _Long time no see_ , her gaze whispers moments before you stride across the dozen yards separating you and adorn her lips with the debris on yours.  _Welcome back_ , the curve of her mouth delights, as if this were not the first time you've ever set sights on each other; as if the last memory you've forgotten of her weren't that of bleeding out in her arms in a dank basement infested with rats and mold as she died in yours.

You don't ask for her name. Names are as useless here as the ones who choose them. She doesn't ask for yours either, and it's better this way, because Zoe is a lie; you'd want to tell her the truth, but how could you, when you no longer remember it.

She tastes like berries and peppermint, in a way that's far from refreshing. Cuts and dirt marks grace her cheeks; her olive shirt has a bit of staleness to it, in touch as well as smell. She grabs the back of your head, fingers twisting in the straight locks, and pulls you closer, closer. Her teeth are magic on your tongue, and, without even thinking, your knee winds between both of hers. The rough material of her khakis chafes against your bare thigh, but it's worth it to catch and release the small sigh that escapes her.

When your hands drag through her mess of hair, they come back littered with pine needles and tattered bits of leaves. You don't mind; not that, nor the wet spots on her back and behind her ear that haven't yet dried from her recent dip in the pond that tempts from the distance.

Her creased, hardened palms settle on your sides. They run down in circles, digging into the flesh so forcefully that you know it should be painful; should make you whimper instead of setting the skin alight. Maybe you ought to bite her back, you think, but then she grabs onto your backside, below your prim, pleated skirt, and slams you into the nearest tree.

Whatever you were thinking of doing shortcircuits in your brain.

Her shirt needs to go; your nails claw over her abdomen in your haste to rip it over her head. She doesn't bother with yours—between the vest and the delicate blouse, there's just too many buttons—but her mouth is hot on your neck, and her hand is even hotter when it slips between your legs. Your lips close around her pert nipple and suck, without too much care. She's certainly not taking any in the handling of  _your_  body; there'll be bruises later, and lots of them.

That's the exciting thing about this place, you muse as you bite your way down the scratch marks you just left over pearly white, soft skin; people who don't hold back.

Moments after your fumbling fingers finally succeed in undoing her belt—failing only because the fist in your hair pierces your limbs in a hundred golden lightning rods right down to your core with each twist—your thumbs dig into the spots above her hipbone and you yank her to the side. Her back hits the same tree; she lets out an appreciative grunt as you grab onto her pants and wrench them down, half using your teeth.

You only manage to get a single kiss onto her folds before she snorts, grips your arms, and brings you back to her. She attacks your mouth as if starved in the few minutes since her last taste, and her heartbeat makes a drumset out of your ribs; still, she finds a way to pull you even closer. Her nails drag over your thighs, drawing blood here and there.

You do the same on her back, creating roadmaps out of freckles and skin.

It's a tangled dance neither of you has ever known the steps to. She pulls, you push. You prod, she shoves. Virtually naked but in no hurry to even remotely undress you, she grinds down. Her silver eyes harbor galaxies in them, untold and frightening. You idly wonder what she sees in yours.

And it's like that, with your mouths fused together, with someone's hand fucking another, that you both tumble down to the forest floor. You land first amid the moss and dirt; there goes the half-hour you spent tending to your hair today. She straddles you and pins your hands over your head. You jut your hips up as far as they will go; she loses her balance and falls off, and you climb on top of her, panting. Her sides have earth prints all over them.

She gives you two kisses' worth before a knee right between the breasts knocks you backward, lying breathless on the leaves till she drags her teeth up your entire length. You don't stay down for long.

You claw at her soul as you always have; she roars it out at you as she always has. You slice and pull and grip; she tears and grabs and clutches. That will forever be the wonder of you—you're calculated and she's impulsive, but you're both chaos, you're both war, and dust can never settle as long as you're together.

Dead leaves are your pillows; the entire forest your bed, not an inch left unraveled. Gasps turn to hisses as easily as the earth revolves around the sun—with great universal forces warring for the outcome—and neither of you rests until you are both incapable of moving.

Her head's still hidden under your skirt when the stars shooting up your lungs and into the universe finally subside. The clearing you finally ended up in is coated in darkness now, streaks of moonlight glinting off nearby puddles. Remnants of frayed life cover every part of you; not even dry cleaning could save the clothes she never got around to taking off you now.

She may be sleeping; she may be waiting to pounce on you. You can never know with this one, even if you've never met and distant memories of when you had are more imprints and impressions than concrete events at points of time. A bit of blood drips off your finger for you to lick off. No use in waiting to be swept up in her stare again.

You should be wobbly; you should be disoriented and hazy, and stumbling blindly toward whatever it was you used to consider a life, hours ago. Instead, your legs stand firm in heels on the uneven forest floor, and your compass carries you back as simply as it led you to her. And from your hairtips to your toes, you are sated.

(With a new hunger awoken in you, one that won't stay dormant for long no matter how often quenched.)

The darkness invites, welcomes, whispers; you leave, cut and bruised and filthied, dirt falling out of your hair with every step, without a backward glance—not having spoken a single word to the god whose name you will never find out.

* * *

 

(In the moments before your bloody blade rises over him, you know. The forest is alive with her wit and energy; it screams at you to look back, to play hide and seek. You couldn't have not felt her there, just as you couldn't have not known since the last entry in your diary that it would end here, and that she would be the one to end it.)

(You hold your breath and drink in his fear. She hesitates. You don't begrudge her for any of it.)

 

 

 

(You'll bite her hips extra hard next time you see her.)


End file.
